10 & 6
by Ghrei
Summary: The records of the Wonderland Friends, gathered by B.C. Pillar, on those days before the split.
1. Letter from D Mouse

_**From the desk of Dora Mouse**_ ~

Dear Blue,

The papers you requested are inside. I hope you were able to find some of Madigan's, because I wasn't able to find or speak to him on such short notice. I'm afraid that after going through all these, without Madigan's records, there's some big holes in the story. Unless you know different, he never spoke about his times with the Queen, or much about his solitary experiences that are necessary for everything to make sense. I don't know why he was running around barefoot that rainy night, or why he left in the middle of dinner with the Cat. Madigan Hatter's mind has always been a mystery to me, and I'm sure even Alice feels the same way. Marchy's record seems to follow him closely (_very_ closely) but that's short-lived. And except for some of his letters Cheshire gave to me (I'm afraid some of them are charred around the edges) there isn't much that explain his actions.

But I think we've come to the conclusion that nothing _ever_ explains his actions.

I took the liberty of re-writing some bits of my own account - just some sentences here and there that make everything make more sense out of context. I haven't touched anyone else's things (except to clarify some smudged bits that Ches must have written straight after an all-night tea binge, and to decipher some tear-stained bits by Alice and Marchy). I thought you'd do that anyway. I'd like you to know that they don't mind, and neither do I. We trust you. We've never doubted you. And I suspect we never will.

They all expressed interest in reading the finished piece. Even Ches, who gave me a sideways look and tried asking subtle questions about how long the whole process would take. Alice wouldn't let me leave until I promised her she would get to see it. Marchy asked - no, she _told_ me - she would read it first. And of course I don't know about Madigan.

It's an understatement to say we were worried about him for a while. We're _still_ worried about him, especially the girls. (Ches won't say anything, but ... we can tell.) I hope you can find him. Show this to him - make him understand.

Good luck.

Love,

Dora

P.S. If you need records from the palace, Jack made sure my address is off the watch list. Please don't hesitate to ask.

* * *

My dearest Dora,

My sincerest thanks on your promptness. In my opinion, the faster all this is recorded in a cohesive fashion, the more accurate it will be - and all the better for a historical record. I must thank you also on your help with the clarification. Some of Marchelle's musings are pure gibberish to me (might it be too much to ask if you could decipher a bit more?) But you were correct - her records of the Hatter are unmatched. What is going to be difficult is sorting through all of this. There is the sheer _volume_ of all their writings, over more than a year of content, and I am afraid I cannot bear to eliminate some of the (enjoyable) fluff you all have written. But ... I think it could be necessary. For the big picture. Do not expect the final product to be short.

Please be assured that they all will have a chance to read it. Without them, there would _be_ no transcript. However, I do not want this causing more trouble than it needs to. Perhaps we should wait until things cool down a bit. (Possibly after Alice and Marchelle can look each other in the eye again.)

By now I am sure you have heard of the fire - his papers are almost gone. I have salvaged just a few. I hope I can fill in the blanks - though information from the palace would be wonderful. Tell Jack that _any_ records he has regarding us, no matter how unremarkable they seem, would be helpful. As of now, I am not entirely sure what is missing or what is needed to pull this together.

Signed,

B. C. Pillar

P.S. The tone of your letter would infer you're looking for information on the Hatter. I regret that I cannot tell you. Please understand that I will tell you what I can, when I can. You said that you all trust me. And for that, I thank you.

* * *

**A/N**: My first full-length story in the Wonderland 'verse. It's going to be in the same sort of format as _Dracula_ - written from the first-person accounts of the people involved. I've had a fun time creating their different writing styles (didja notice the Blue Caterpillar doesn't use contractions? lol) and I hope you all will enjoy reading it! Please R&R ~


	2. Cheshire Cathcart's Daybook

**CHESHIRE CATHCART'S DAYBOOK**

_August 27th, '79 -_

Blue says we should start everything with the Absolute Truth. So, since is this my new daybook, I guess I need to.

AN ABSOLUTE TRUTH:  
Madigan Hatter is a lot of things, but he is never _subtle_.

No, nothing groundbreaking here, but today - _today_ was a shining example of this simple Truth.

Anyway. Perhaps I should start at the beginning - or at least somewhere close to it. I know Madigan's stories start somewhere in the middle and are then told in reverse. Of course it's interesting, but it's impossible to understand, unless you're inside his bloody head. God knows how hard _that_ is to do. So I'm reduced to going the simpler, albeit boring, alternate route.

Today, I woke up earlier than usual. Dawn, actually. I never wake up at dawn. Sun stretched it's warm yellow fingers over my eyes, poking at me, causing me to stir. I groaned and shifted, trying to throw off the already oppressive heat and light. My blankets and sheets were already in a pile on the floor. (I like to sleep cold. Today, for instance, I could only bear to be comfortable with just my underwear on.) I settled with my face buried into the pillow, curled towards the foot of my bed, silently cursing daylight. I'm generally a nocturnal creature. And I'd forgotten to draw my curtains closed the night before.

It wasn't surprising, really. We'd been out, having a good time, deep into the night hours with several pots of tea and some of Blue's smoke, dancing around a bonfire of some sort. All in all, a normal night for us. But parties and frolicking such as this still gave me terrible hangovers, and I held back whimpers with each throb of my head.

Arching my back, catlike, I stretched, turning my face upward, drinking in the sunshine. With an annoyed purr, I tumbled onto the messy floor and disentangled myself from blankets, sheets, discarded clothes, and a tea service. Muttering, I tripped over everything and tottered towards the window, and threw the curtains across the offending sunshine. Pleased, I stood there, hands on my hips. I realized, however, that there was no way I'd ever get back to sleep.

Cats are fickle like that.

Can't blame one for trying, though - I curled back up on my bed, tucking legs and arms beneath me, shutting my violet eyes, trying to purr myself a lullaby. Basically, I feigned sleep. And trust me, it's a whole lot harder than it looks.

"Wake up, Ches!"

It's even harder to pretend you're asleep when someone's jumping on your bed.

Madigan Hatter is the oldest one in our little group, but he hardly acts it. I met him when I was around fifteen human years old - meaning he was at least in his late teens. Let's just say, I display maturity far beyond my years, and Madigan displays maturity far _behind_ his. I looked up at him now. His lean, sharp and angular face was displaying a grin that rivaled one of my own, and he was dressed in what he'd probably slept in: a holey shirt and ragged pair of trousers, robeless, and hatless. Chestnut hair, slightly silvered around his temples, stuck up in odd places, merely accentuating the madness that shone through in his steel-gray eyes.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up," he chirped again, punctuating each 'up' with another bounce on the bed. I glared at him with narrowed, irritated eyes. It was _far_ too early for stuff like this. I had half a mind to shove him in mid-leap, but that would mean moving. Quickly. I was not in the mood to move quickly. All I was in the mood for was giving him and angry purr-growl and shutting my eyes again.

Before I knew it, I had landed on the floor again with a crisp _thump_ and was rubbing my throbbing head. Madigan had apparently taken it upon himself to tip my mattress, sending me sliding, clawing, and spitting towards my cold floor. I swore, loudly. I had a overwhelming urge to stand on Madigan's head. Yes, that would be a welcome retaliation.

As he came around to the other side of the bed, I fought the urge to turn into a four-foot-tall mauve feline with an attitude problem and zero sleep, sharp teeth and no patience. And see how well he dealt with _that. _Still, no matter how much the man irked me, he was my friend, and had been for many years. I couldn't force myself to give him a friendly smile, though. All I managed was a mildly poisonous glare. Madigan bent down closer to me, unable to contain his glee. Madigan's always worn his heart on his sleeve, and today was no exception - the smile playing across his face accentuated his laugh lines, his high, strong, animated brow. I huffed. Madigan could pretty much out-express everyone, except for me. At least _I _still held the title of 'Best Smile'.

"Come on," he said, nudging me with his foot. "Let's go out."

"What?" I protested, rolling away from him. I slowly got my human legs beneath me and rose to my full height, arching my back slowly, languishing in a yawn. Madigan bounced back and forth on his heels. "Not this early."

"_Yes,_ this early." Madigan took two steps towards my window and flung open my curtains. Light poured into my room, and I growled in protest, shielding my eyes. "Town'll be fun today." He picked his way over strewn clothes, teacups, catnip, and blankets towards me. I drew myself up to my full height, but I knew that would make no difference. Madigan's over six feet tall, there was no way I'd be able to intimidate him with my average stature. Madigan didn't seem to notice - he'd become distracted by a chipped teapot. After admiring the paint job for a few moments, he turned his attention back to me.

"So," he continued. "Whaddya say?"

"What do I say?" I replied, incredulous. "Are you _insane_?"

Madigan laughed like an inmate at a mental hospital. Throwing his head back, he let peals of laughter tumble out of him, clutched his sides, doubled over from lack of air, let tears fall down his cheeks. When Madigan laughed, the whole world stopped to watch him.

"_Christ, _Ches," he said, after the fit had subsided. "I thought you knew me better than that."

"I do."

Smirking, Madigan clapped me on the shoulder. I got dressed.

* * *

**A/N: Originally, this and the next chapter were all going to be one - and that's sort of why it's taken me so long to update. Plus, real life's caught up with me. Soon I'll get the second half or so up: in the meantime, please review!**


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